"No, I guess I didn't! she was a perfect plague. All the day on board the steamboat she scarcely came near us; we couldn't pretend to keep sight of her; Mamma had to send her maid out to look after her, I don't know how many times. She scraped acquaintance with some strange man on board, and liked his company better than ours, for she stayed with him the whole blessed day, waking and sleeping; of course Mamma didn't like it at all. She didn't go to a single meal with us; you know, of course, that wasn't proper behaviour."
"No, indeed," said Isabel.
"I suppose," said John, coolly, "she chose the society she thought the pleasantest. Probably Miss Margaret's politeness was more than she had been accustomed to."
Margaret coloured, not quite knowing what to make of the speaker or his speech.
"It would take much to make me believe," said gentle Mrs. Chauncey, "that a child of such refined and delicate feeling as that little girl evidently has, could take pleasure in improper company."
Margaret had a reply at her tongue's end, but she had also an uneasy feeling that there were eyes not far off too keen of sight to be baffled; she kept silence till the group dispersed, and she had an opportunity of whispering in Marianne's ear that "that was the very most disagreeable man she had ever seen in her life."
"What a singular fancy you have taken to this little pet of
Alice's, Mr. John!" said Mrs. Marshman's youngest daughter.
"You quite surprise me."
"Did you think me a misanthrope, Miss Sophia?"
"Oh, no, not at all; but I always had a notion you would not be easily pleased in the choice of favourites."
"Easily! When a simple, intelligent child of twelve or thirteen is a common character, then I will allow that I am easily pleased."
"Twelve or thirteen!" said Miss Sophia; "what are you thinking about? Alice says she is only ten or eleven."
"In years perhaps."
"How gravely you take me up!" said the young lady, laughing. "My dear Mr. John, 'in years perhaps,' you may call yourself twenty, but in everything else you might much better pass for thirty or forty."
As they were called to dinner, Alice and Ellen Chauncey came back; the former looking a little serious, the latter crying, and wishing aloud that all the moroccoes had been in the fire. They had not been able to find Ellen. Neither was she in the drawing-room when they returned to it after dinner; and a second search was made in vain. John went to the library, which was separate from the other rooms, thinking she might have chosen that for a hiding-place. She was not there; but the pleasant light of the room, where only the fire was burning, invited a stay. He sat down in the deep window, and was musingly looking out into the moonlight, when the door softly opened, and Ellen came in. She stole in noiselessly, so that he did not hear her, and she thought the room empty, till in passing slowly down towards the fire she came upon him in the window. Her start first let him know she was there; she would have run, but one of her hands was caught, and she could not get it away.
"Running away from your brother, Ellie!" said he, kindly; "what is the matter?"
Ellen shrunk from meeting his eye, and was silent.
"I know all, Ellie, said he, still very kindly "I have seen all why do you shun me?"
Ellen said nothing; the big tears began to run down her face and frock.
"You are taking this matter too hardly, dear Ellen," he said, drawing her close to him; "you did wrong, but you have done all you could to repair the wrong neither man nor woman can do more than that."
But though encouraged by his manner, the tears flowed faster than ever.
"Where have you been? Alice was looking for you, and little Ellen Chauncey was in great trouble. I don't know what dreadful thing she thought you had done with yourself. Come! lift up your head, and let me see you smile again."
Ellen lifted her head but could not her eyes, though she tried to smile.
"I want to talk to you a little about this," said he. "You know you gave me leave to be your brother will you let me ask you a question or two?"
"Oh, yes whatever he pleased," Ellen said.
"Then sit down here," said he, making room for her on the wide window-seat, but still keeping hold of her hand and speaking very gently. "You said you saw when you took the morocco I don't quite understand how was it?"
"Why," said Ellen, "we were not to look, and we had gone three times round, and nobody had got that large piece yet, and we all wanted it; and I did not mean to look at all, but I don't know how it was, just before I shut my eyes I happened to see the corner of it sticking up, and then I took it."
"With your eyes open?"
"No, no, with them shut. And I had scarcely got it when I was sorry for it, and wished it back."
"You will wonder at me, perhaps, Ellie," said John, "but I am not very sorry this has happened. You are no worse than before; it has only made you see what you are very, very weak quite unable to keep yourself right without constant help. Sudden temptation was too much for you so it has many a time been for me, and so it has happened to the best men on earth. I suppose if you had had a minute's time to think, you would not have done as you did?"
"No, indeed!" said Ellen. "I was sorry a minute after."
"And I dare say the thought of it weighed upon your mind ever since?"
"Oh, yes!" said Ellen; "it wasn't out of my head a minute the whole day."
"Then let it make you very humble, dear Ellie, and let it make you in future keep close to our dear Saviour, without whose help we cannot stand a moment."
Ellen sobbed; and he allowed her to do so for a few minutes, then said
"But you have not been thinking much about Him, Ellie?"
The sobs ceased; he saw his words had taken hold.
"Is it right," he said, softly, "that we should be more troubled about what people will think of us, than for having displeased or dishonoured Him?"
Ellen now looked up, and in her look was all the answer he wished.
"You understand me, I see," said he. "Be humbled in the dust before him the more the better; but whenever we are greatly concerned, for our own sakes, about other people's opinion, we may be sure we are thinking too little of God and what will please him."
"I am very sorry," said poor Ellen, from whose eyes the tears began to drop again "I am very wrong: but I couldn't bear to think what Alice would think and you and all of them."
"Here's Alice to speak for herself," said John.
As Alice came up with a quick step and knelt down before her, Ellen sprang to her neck, and they held each other very fast indeed. John walked up and down the room. Presently he stopped before them.
"All's well again," said Alice, "and we are going in to tea."
He smiled and held out his hand, which Ellen took, but he would not leave the library, declaring they had a quarter of an hour still. So they sauntered up and down the long room, talking of different things, so pleasantly, that Ellen near forgot her troubles. Then came in Miss Sophia to find them, and then Mr. Marshman, and Marianne to call them to tea; so the going into the drawing-room was not half so bad as Ellen thought it would be.
She behaved very well; her face was touchingly humble that night; and all the evening she kept fast by either Alice or John, without budging an inch. And as little Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh chose to be where she was, the young party was quite divided; and not the least merry portion of it was that mixed with the older people. Little Ellen was half beside herself with spirits; the secret of which, perhaps, was the fact, which she several times in the course of the evening whispered to Ellen as a great piece of news, that "it was Christmas eve!"
CHAPTER XXIX.
Stockings, to which the "Bas Bleu" was nothing.
Christmas morning was dawning gray, but it was still far from broad daylight, when Ellen was awakened. She found little Ellen Chauncey pulling and pushing at her shoulders, and whispering "Ellen! Ellen!" in a tone that showed a great fear of waking somebody up. There she was, in nightgown and nightcap, and barefooted, too, with a face brimfull of excitement, and as wide awake as possible. Ellen roused herself in no little surprise, and asked what the matter was.
"I am going to look at my stocking," whispered her visitor; "don't you want to get up and come with me? it's just here in the other room; come! don't make any noise."
"But what if you should find nothing in it?" said Ellen, laughingly, as she bounded out of bed.
"Ah, but I shall, I know; I always do never fear. Hush! step ever so softly I don't want to wake anybody."
"It's hardly light enough for you to see," whispered Ellen, as the two little barefooted white figures glided out of the room.
"Oh, yes, it is that's all the fun. Hush! don't make a bit of noise I know where it hangs Mamma always puts it at the back of her big easy-chair; come this way here it is! Oh, Ellen! there's two of 'em! There's one for you! there's one for you!"
In a tumult of delight, one Ellen capered about the floor on the tips of her bare toes, while the other, not less happy, stood still for pleasure. The dancer finished by hugging and kissing her with all her heart, declaring she was so glad, she didn't know what to do.
"But how shall we know which is which?"
"Perhaps they are both alike," said Ellen.
"No at any rate, one's for me, and t'other's for you. Stop! here are pieces of paper, with our names, on I guess let's turn the chair a little bit to the light there yes! Ellen M-o-n there, that's yours; my name doesn't begin with an M; and this is mine!"
Another caper round the room, and then she brought up in front of the chair, where Ellen was still standing.
"I wonder what's in 'em," she said; "I want to look, and I don't want, too. Come, you begin."
"But that's no stocking of mine," said Ellen, a smile gradually breaking upon her sober little face; "my leg never was as big as that."
"Stuffed, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Oh, do make haste, and see what is in yours. I want to know so, I don't know what to do."
"Well, will you take out of yours as fast as I take out of mine?"
"Well!"
Oh, mysterious delight, and delightful mystery, of the stuffed stocking! Ellen's trembling fingers sought the top, and then very suddenly left it.
"I can't think what it is," said she, laughing "it feels so funny."
"Oh, never mind! make haste," said Ellen Chauncey; "it won't hurt you, I guess."
"No, it won't hurt me," said Ellen, "but"
She drew forth a great bunch of white grapes.
"Splendid! isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Now for mine."
It was the counterpart of Ellen's bunch.
"So far, so good," said she. "Now for the next."
The next thing in each stocking was a large horn of sugar- plums.
"Well, that's fine, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey "yours is tied with white ribbon, and mine with blue; that's all the difference. Oh! and your paper's red and mine is purple."
"Yes, and the pictures are different," said Ellen.
"Well, I had rather they would be different wouldn't you? I think it's just as pleasant. One's as big as the other at any rate. Come, what's next?"
Ellen drew out a little bundle, which, being opened, proved to be a nice little pair of dark kid gloves.
"Oh, I wonder who gave me this!" she said "it's just what I wanted. How pretty! oh, I'm so glad! I guess who it was."
"Oh, look here," said the other Ellen, who had been diving into her stocking "I've got a ball this is just what I wanted, too; George told me if I'd get one he'd show me how to play. Isn't it pretty? Isn't it funny we should each get just what we wanted? Oh, this is a very nice ball. I'm glad I've got it. Why, here is another great round thing in my stocking! what can it be? they wouldn't give me two balls," said she, chuckling.
"So there is in mine!" said Ellen. "Maybe they're apples?"
"They aren't! they wouldn't give us apples; besides, it is soft. Pull it out and see."
"Then they are oranges," said Ellen laughing.
"I never felt such a soft orange," said little Ellen Chauncey.
"Come, Ellen! stop laughing, and let's see."
They were two great scarlet satin pincushions, with E. C. and
E. M., very neatly stuck in pins.
"Well, we shan't want pins for a good while, shall we?" said
Ellen. "Who gave us these?"
"I know," said little Ellen Chauncey "Mrs. Bland."
"She was very kind to make one for me," said Ellen. "Now for the next!"
Her next thing was a little bottle of Cologne water.
"I can tell who put that in," said her friend "Aunt Sophia.
I know her little bottles of Cologne water. Do you love
Cologne water? Aunt Sophia's is delicious."
Ellen did like it very much, and was extremely pleased. Ellen Chauncey had also a new pair of scissors, which gave entire satisfaction.
"Now, I wonder what all this toe is stuffed with," said she, "raisins and almonds, I declare! and yours the same, isn't it? Well, don't you think we have got enough sweet things? Isn't this a pretty good Christmas?"
"What are you about, you monkeys?" cried the voice of Aunt Sophia, from the dressing-room door. "Alice, Alice! do look at them. Come right back to bed, both of you. Crazy pates! It is lucky it is Christmas day if it was any other in the year, we should have you both sick in bed; as it is, I suppose you will go scot free."
Laughing, and rosy with pleasure, they came back and got into bed together; and for an hour afterwards the two kept up a most animated conversation, intermixed with long chuckles and bursts of merriment, and whispered communications of immense importance. The arrangement of the painted needlebook was entirely decided upon in this consultation; also two or three other matters; and the two children seemed to have already lived a day since day-break by the time they came down to breakfast.
After breakfast, Ellen applied secretly to Alice, to know if she could write very beautifully she exceedingly wanted something done.
"I should not like to venture, Ellie, if it must be so superfine; but John can do it for you."
"Can he? Do you think he would?"
"I am sure he will, if you ask him."
"But I don't like to ask him," said Ellen, casting a doubtful glance at the window.
"Nonsense, he's only reading the newspaper. You won't disturb him."
"Well, you won't say anything about it?"
"Certainly not."
Ellen accordingly went near, and said, gently, "Mr.
Humphreys!" but he did not seem to hear her. "Mr.
Humphreys!" a little louder.
"He has not arrived yet," said John, looking round gravely.
He spoke so gravely, that Ellen could not tell whether he were joking or serious. Her face of extreme perplexity was too much for his command of countenance.
"Whom do you want to speak to?" said he, smiling.
"I wanted to speak to you, Sir," said Ellen, "if you are not too busy."
"Mr. Humphreys is always busy," said he, shaking his head; "but Mr. John can attend to you at any time, and John will do for you whatever you please to ask him."
"Then, Mr. John," said Ellen, laughing, "if you please, I wanted to ask you to do something for me, very much indeed, if you are not too busy; Alice said I shouldn't disturb you."
"Not at all; I've been long enough over this stupid newspaper.
What is it?"
"I want you, if you will be so good," said Ellen, "to write a little bit for me on something, very beautifully."
" 'Very beautifully!' Well come to the library; we will see."
"But it is a great secret," said Ellen; "you won't tell anybody?"
"Tortures shan't draw it from me when I know what it is," said he, with one of his comical looks.
In high glee, Ellen ran for the pieces of Bristol board which were to form the backs of the needlebook, and brought them to the library; and explained how room was to be left in the middle of each for a painting, a rose on one, a butterfly on the other; the writing to be as elegant as possible, above, beneath, and roundabout, as the fancy of the writer should choose.
"Well, what is to be inscribed on this most original of needlebooks?" said John, as he carefully mended his pen.
"Stop!" said Ellen "I'll tell you in a minute. On this one, the front, you know, is to go, 'To my dear mother, many happy New Years;' and on this side, 'From her dear little daughter, Ellen Chauncey.' You know," she added, "Mrs. Chauncey isn't to know anything about it till New Year's day; nor anybody else."
"Trust me," said John. "If I am asked any questions, they shall find me as obscure as an oracle."
"What is an oracle, Sir?"
"Why," said John, smiling "this pen won't do yet the old heathens believed there were certain spots on earth to which some of their gods had more favour than to others, and where they would permit mortals to come nearer to them, and would even deign to answer their questions."
"And did they?" said Ellen.
"Did they what?"
"Did they answer their questions?"
"Did who answer their questions?"
"The oh, to be sure," said Ellen, "there were no such gods. But what made people think they answered them? and how could they ask questions?"
"I suppose it was a contrivance of the priests, to increase their power and wealth. There was always a temple built near, with priests and priestesses; the questions were put through them; and they would not ask them except on great occasions, or for people of consequence, who could pay them well, by making splendid gifts to the god."
"But I should think the people would have thought the priest or priestess had made up the answers themselves."
"Perhaps they did, sometimes. But people had not the Bible then, and did not know as much as we know. It was not unnatural to think the gods would care a little for the poor people that lived on the earth. Besides, there was a good deal of management and trickery about the answers of the oracle, that helped to deceive."
"How was it?" said Ellen; "how could they manage, and what was the oracle?"
"The oracle was either the answer itself, or the god who was supposed to give it, or the place where it was given; and there were different ways of managing. At one place the priest hid himself in the hollow body or among the branches of an oak-tree, and people thought the tree spoke to them. Sometimes the oracle was delivered by a woman, who pretended to be put into a kind of fit tearing her hair and beating her breast."
"But suppose the oracle made a mistake what would the people think then?"
"The answers were generally contrived so that they would seem to come true in any event."
"I don't see how they could do that," said Ellen.
"Very well just imagine that I am an oracle, and come to me with some question; I'll answer you."
"But you can't tell what's going to happen?"
"No matter you ask me truly, and I'll answer you oracularly."
"That means, like an oracle, I suppose?" said Ellen. "Well, Mr. John, will Alice be pleased with what I am going to give her New Year?"
"She will be pleased with what she will receive on that day."
"Ah, but," said Ellen, laughing, "that isn't fair; you haven't answered me; perhaps somebody else will give her something, and then she might be pleased with that, and not with mine."
"Exactly but the oracle never means to be understood."
"Well, I won't come to you," said Ellen. "I don't like such answers. Now for the needlebook!"
Breathlessly she looked on while the skilful pen did its work; and her exclamations of delight and admiration when the first cover was handed to her were not loud but deep.
"It will do, then, will it? Now let us see 'From her dear little daughter' there; now, 'Ellen Chauncey,' I suppose, must be in hieroglyphics."
"In what?" said Ellen.
"I mean, written in some difficult character."
"Yes," said Ellen. "But what was that you said?"
"Hieroglyphics."
Ellen added no more, though she was not satisfied. He looked up, and smiled.
"Do you want to know what that means?"
"Yes, if you please," said Ellen.
The pen was laid down while he explained, to a most eager little listener. Even the great business of the moment was forgotten. From hieroglyphics they went to the pyramids; and Ellen had got to the top of one, and was enjoying the prospect (in imagination), when she suddenly came down to tell John of her stuffed stocking and its contents. The pen went on again, and came to the end of the writing by the time Ellen had got to the toe of the stocking.
"Wasn't it very strange they should give me so many things?" said she; "people that don't know me?"
"Why, no," said John, smiling "I cannot say I think it was very strange. Is this all the business you had for my hands?"
"This is all; and I am very much obliged to you, Mr. John."
Her grateful, affectionate eye said much more, and he felt well paid.
Gilbert was next applied to, to paint the rose and the butterfly, which, finding so excellent a beginning made in the work, he was very ready to do. The girls were then free to set about the embroidery of the leaves, which was by no means the business of an hour.
A very happy Christmas day was that. With their needles and thimbles, and rose-coloured silk, they kept by themselves in a corner, or in the library, out of the way; and sweetening their talk with a sugar-plum now and then, neither tongues nor needles knew any flagging. It was wonderful what they found so much to say, but there was no lack. Ellen Chauncey especially was inexhaustible. Several times, too, that day, the Cologne bottle was handled, the gloves looked at and fondled, the ball tried, and the new scissors extolled as "just the thing for their work." Ellen attempted to let her companion into the mystery of oracles and hieroglyphics, but was fain to give it up; little Ellen showed a decided preference for American, not to say Ventnor, subjects, where she felt more at home.
Then came Mr. Humphreys; and Ellen was glad, both for her own sake and because she loved to see Alice pleased. Then came the great merry Christmas dinner, when the girls had not talked themselves out, but tired themselves with working. Young and old dined together to-day, and the children not set by themselves, but scattered among the grown-up people; and as Ellen was nicely placed between Alice and little Ellen Chauncey, she enjoyed it all very much. The large long table surrounded with happy faces; tones of cheerfulness, and looks of kindness, and lively talk; the superb display of plate and glass and china; the stately dinner; and last, but not least, the plum-pudding. There was sparkling wine, too, and a great deal of drinking of healths; but Ellen noticed that Alice and her brother smilingly drank all theirs in water; so, when old Mr. Marshman called to her to "hold out her glass," she held it out, to be sure, and let him fill it, but she lifted her tumbler of water to her lips instead, after making him a very low bow. Mr. Marshman laughed at her a great deal, and asked her if she was "a proselyte to the new notions;" and Ellen laughed with him, without having the least idea what he meant, and was extremely happy. It was very pleasant, too, when they went into the drawing-room to take coffee. The young ones were permitted to have coffee to-night as a great favour. Old Mrs. Marshman had the two little ones on either side of her, and was so kind, and held Ellen's hand in her own, and talked to her about her mother, till Ellen loved her.
After tea there was a great call for games, and young and old joined in them. They played the Old Curiosity Shop; and Ellen thought Mr. John's curiosities could not be matched. They played the Old Family Coach, Mr. Howard Marshman being the manager, and Ellen laughed till she was tired; she was the coach door, and he kept her opening and shutting, and swinging and breaking, it seemed all the while, though most of the rest were worked just as hard. When they were well tired, they sat down to rest and hear music, and Ellen enjoyed that exceedingly. Alice sang, and Mrs. Gillespie, and Miss Sophia, and another lady, and Mr. Howard; sometimes alone, sometimes three or four, or all together.
At last came ten o'clock, and the young ones were sent off; and from beginning to end that had been a Christmas day of unbroken and unclouded pleasure. Ellen's last act was to take another look at her Cologne bottle, gloves, pincushion, grapes, and paper of sugar-plums, which were laid side by side carefully in a drawer.
CHAPTER XXX.
Sunday at Ventnor.
Mr. Humphreys was persuaded to stay over Sunday at Ventnor; and it was also settled that his children should not leave it till after New Year. This was less their own wish than his; he said Alice wanted the change, and he wished she looked a little fatter. Besides, the earnest pleadings of the whole family were not to be denied. Ellen was very glad of this, though there was one drawback to the pleasures of Ventnor she could not feel quite at home with any of the young people, but only Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh. This seemed very strange to her; she almost thought Margaret Dunscombe was at the bottom of it all, but she recollected she had felt something of this before Margaret came. She tried to think nothing about it; and in truth it was not able to prevent her from being very happy. The breach, however, was destined to grow wider.
About four miles from Ventnor was a large town called Randolph. Thither they drove to church Sunday morning, the whole family; but the hour of dinner and the distance prevented any one from going in the afternoon. The members of the family were scattered in different parts of the house, most in their own rooms. Ellen with some difficulty made her escape from her young companions, whose manner of spending the time did not satisfy her notions of what was right on that day, and went to look in the library for her friends. They were there, and alone; Alice half reclining on the sofa, half in her brother's arms; he was reading or talking to her; there was a book in his hand.
"Is anything the matter?" said Ellen, as she drew near; "aren't you well, dear Alice? Headache? oh, I am sorry. Oh! I know"
She darted away. In two minutes she was back again with a pleased face, her bunch of grapes in one hand, her bottle of Cologne water in the other.
"Won't you open that, please, Mr. John," said she; "I can't open it; I guess it will do her good, for Ellen says it's delicious. Mamma used to have Cologne water for her headaches. And here, dear Alice, won't you eat these? do! try one."
"Hasn't that bottle been open yet?" said Alice, as she smilingly took a grape.
"Why, no, to be sure it hasn't. I wasn't going to open it till
I wanted it. Eat them all, dear Alice please do!"
"But I don't think you have eaten one yourself, Ellen, by the look of the bunch. And here are a great many too many for me."
"Yes, I have, I've eaten two; I don't want 'em. I give them all to you and Mr. John. I had a great deal rather!"
Ellen took, however, as precious payment, Alice's look and kiss; and then, with a delicate consciousness that perhaps the brother and sister might like to be alone, she left the library. She did not know where to go, for Miss Sophia was stretched on the bed in her room, and she did not want any company. At last, with her little Bible, she placed herself on the old sofa in the hall above-stairs, which was perfectly well warmed, and for some time she was left there in peace. It was pleasant, after all the hubbub of the morning, to have a little quiet time that seemed like Sunday; and the sweet Bible words came, as they often now came to Ellen, with a healing breath. But after half an hour or so, to her dismay she heard a door open, and the whole gang of children come trooping into the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that reading or thinking was out of the question.
"What a bother it is that one can't play games on a Sunday!" said Marianne Gillespie.
"One can play games on a Sunday," answered her brother.
"Where's the odds? It's all Sunday's good for, I think."
"William! William!" sounded the shocked voice of little
Ellen Chauncey "you are a real wicked boy!"
"Well, now!" said William, "how am I wicked? Now say I should like to know. How is it any more wicked for us to play games than it is for Aunt Sophia to lie a-bed and sleep, or for Uncle Howard to read novels, or for Grandpa to talk politics, or for mother to talk about the fashions? there were she and Miss What's-her-name for ever so long this morning doing everything but make a dress. Now which is the worst?"
"Oh, William! William! for shame! for shame!" said little
Ellen again.
"Do hush, Ellen Chauncey, will you?" said Marianne, sharply; "and you had better hush too, William, if you know what is good for yourself. I don't care whether it's right or wrong, I do get dolefully tired with doing nothing."
"Oh, so do I!" said Margaret, yawning. "I wish one could sleep all Sunday."
"I'll tell you what," said George "I know a game we can play, and no harm either, for it's all out of the Bible."
"Oh, do you? let's hear it, George," cried the girls.
"I don't believe it is good for anything if it is out of the
Bible," said Margaret. "Now stare, Ellen Chauncey, do!"
"I ain't staring," said Ellen, indignantly; "but I don't believe it is right to play it, if it is out of the Bible."
"Well, it is, though," said George. "Now listen; I'll think of somebody in the Bible some man or woman, you know; and you all may ask me twenty questions about him, to see if you can find out who it is."
"What kind of questions?"
"Any kind of questions whatever you like."
"That will improve your knowledge of scripture history," said
Gilbert.
"To be sure; and exercise our memory," said Isabel Hawthorn.
"Yes, and then we are thinking of good people and what they did all the time," said little Ellen.
"Or bad people and what they did," said William.
"But I don't know enough about people and things in the
Bible," said Margaret; "I couldn't guess."
"Oh, never mind it will be all the more fun," said George.
"Come! let's begin. Who'll take somebody?"
"Oh, I think this will be fine!" said little Ellen Chauncey; "but, Ellen where's Ellen? we want her."
"No we don't want her! we've enough without her she won't play!" shouted William, as the little girl ran upstairs. She persevered, however. Ellen had left her sofa before this, and was found seated on the foot of her bed. As far and as long as she could, she withstood her little friend's entreaties, and very unwillingly at last yielded and went with her downstairs.
"Now we are ready," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I have told
Ellen what the game is; who's going to begin?"
"We have begun," said William. "Gilbert has thought of somebody. Man or woman?"
"Man."
"Young or old?"
"Why, he was young first, and old afterwards."
"Pshaw, William! what a ridiculous question," said his sister. "Besides, you mustn't ask more than one at a time. Rich or poor, Gilbert?"
"Humph! why, I suppose he was moderately well off. I dare say I should think myself a lucky fellow if I had as much."
"Are you answering truly, Gilbert?"
"Upon my honour!"
"Was he in a high or low station of life?" asked Miss
Hawthorn.
"Neither at the top nor the bottom of the ladder a very respectable person indeed."
"But we are not getting on," said Margaret. "According to you, he wasn't anything in particular; what kind of a person was he, Gilbert?"
"A very good man."
"Handsome or ugly?"
"History don't say."
"Well, what does it say?" said George "what did he do?"
"He took a journey once upon a time."
"What for?"
"Do you mean why he went, or what was the object of his going?"
"Why, the one's the same as the other, ain't it?"
"I beg your pardon."
"Well, what was the object of his going?"
"He went after a wife."
"Samson! Samson!" shouted William and Isabel and Ellen
Chauncey.
"No it wasn't Samson either."
"I can't think of anybody else that went after a wife," said
George. "That king what's his name? that married Esther?"
The children screamed. "He didn't go after a wife, George his wives were brought to him. Was it Jacob?"
"No, he didn't go after a wife, either," said Gilbert; "he married two of them, but he didn't go to his uncle's to find them. You had better go on with your questions. You have had eight already. If you don't look out, you won't catch me. Come!"
"Did he get the wife that he went after?" asked Ellen
Chauncey.
"He was never married that I know of," said Gilbert.
"What was the reason he failed?" said Isabel.
"He did not fail."
"Did he bring home his wife then? You said he wasn't married."
"He never was, that I know of; but he brought home a wife notwithstanding."
"But how funny you are, Gilbert!" said little Ellen. "He had a wife and he hadn't a wife: what became of her?"
"She lived and flourished. Twelve questions: take care."
"Nobody asked what country he was of," said Margaret, "what was he, Gilbert?"
"He was a Damascene."
"A what?"
"Of Damascus of Damascus. You know where Damascus is, don't you?"
"Fiddle!" said Marianne "I thought he was a Jew. Did he live before or after the Flood?"
"After. I should think you might have known that."
"Well, I can't make out anything about him," said Marianne.
"We shall have to give it up."
"No, no not yet," said William. "Where did he go after his wife?"
"Too close a question."
"Then that don't count. Had he ever seen her before?"
"Never."
"Was she willing to go with him?"
"Very willing. Ladies always are, when they go to be married."
"And what became of her?"
"She was married and lived happily, as I told you."
"But you said he wasn't married?"
"Well, what then? I didn't say she married him."
"Whom did she marry?"
"Ah, that is asking the whole; I can't tell you."
"Had they far to go?" asked Isabel.
"Several days' journey I don't know how far."
"How did they travel?"
"On camels."
"Was it the Queen of Sheba?" said little Ellen.
There was a roar of laughter at this happy thought, and poor little Ellen declared she forgot all but about the journey; she remembered the Queen of Sheba had taken a journey, and the camels in the picture of the Queen of Sheba, and that made her think of her.
The children gave up. Questioning seemed hopeless; and Gilbert at last told them his thought. It was Eliezer, Abraham's steward, whom he sent to fetch a wife for his son Isaac.
"Why haven't you guessed, little mumchance?" said Gilbert to
Ellen Montgomery.
"I have guessed," said Ellen; "I knew who it was, some time ago."
"Then why didn't you say so? and you haven't asked a single question," said George.
"No, you haven't asked a single question," said Ellen
Chauncey.
"She is a great deal too good for that," said William; "she thinks it is wicked, and that we are not at all nice, proper- behaved boys and girls to be playing on Sunday; she is very sorry she could not help being amused."
"Do you think it is wicked, Ellen?" asked her little friend.
"Do you think it isn't right?" said George Walsh.
Ellen hesitated; she saw they were all waiting to hear what she would say. She coloured, and looked down at her little Bible, which was still in her hand. It encouraged her.
"I don't want to say anything rude," she began; "I don't think it is quite right to play such plays, or any plays."
She was attacked with impatient cries of "Why not?" "Why not?"
"Because," said Ellen, trembling with the effort she made, "I think Sunday was meant to be spent in growing better and learning good things; and I don't think such plays would help one at all to do that; and I have a kind of feeling that I ought not to do it."
"Well, I hope you'll act according to your feeling, then," said William; "I am sure nobody has any objection. You had better go somewhere else, though, for we are going on; we have been learning to be good long enough for one day. Come! I have thought of somebody."
Ellen could not help feeling hurt and sorry at the half-sneer she saw in the look and manner of the others, as well as in William's words. She wished for no better than to go away; but as she did so, her bosom swelled, and the tears started, and her breath came quicker. She found Alice lying down and asleep, Miss Sophia beside her; so she stole out again, and went down to the library. Finding nobody, she took possession of the sofa, and tried to read again; reading somehow did not go well, and she fell to musing on what had just passed. She thought of the unkindness of the children; how sure she was it was wrong to spend any part of Sunday in such games; what Alice would think of it, and John, and her mother; and how the Sundays long ago used to be spent, when that dear mother was with her; and then she wondered how she was passing this very one while Ellen was sitting here in the library alone, what she was doing in that far-away land; and she thought if there only were such things as oracles that could tell truly, how much she should like to ask about her.
"Ellen!" said the voice of John from the window.
She started up; she had thought she was alone; but there he was lying in the window-seat.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," said Ellen.
"Come here. What are you thinking about? I didn't know you were there till I heard two or three very long sighs. What is the matter with my little sister?"
He took her hand and drew her fondly up to him. "What were you thinking about?"
"I was thinking about different things nothing is the matter," said Ellen.
"Then what are those tears in your eyes for?"
"I don't know," said she, laughing "there weren't any till I came here. I was thinking just now about Mamma."
He said no more still, however, keeping her beside him.
"I should think," said Ellen presently, after a few minutes' musing look out of the window, "it would be very pleasant if there were such things as oracles don't you, Mr. John?"
"No."
"But wouldn't you like to know something about what's going to happen?"
"I do know a great deal about it."
"About what is going to happen!"
He smiled.
"Yes a great deal, Ellen enough to give me work for all the rest of my life."
"Oh, you mean from the Bible I was thinking of other things."
"It is best not to know the other things, Ellie I am very glad to know those the Bible teaches us."
"But is doesn't tell us much, does it? What does it tell us?"
"Go to the window, and tell me what you see."
"I don't see anything in particular," said Ellen, after taking a grave look out.
"Well, what in general?"
"Why, there is the lawn covered with snow, and the trees and bushes; and the sun is shining on everything, just as it did the day we came; and there's the long shadow of that hemlock across the snow, and the blue sky."
"Now look out again, Ellie, and listen. I know that a day is to come, when those heavens shall be wrapped together as a scroll they shall vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like a garment and it, and all the works that are therein, shall be burned up."
As he spoke, Ellen's fancy tried to follow to picture the ruin and desolation of all that stood so fair, and seemed to stand so firm before her; but the sun shone on, the branches waved gently in the wind, the shadows lay still on the snow, and the blue heaven was fair and cloudless. Fancy was baffled. She turned from the window.
"Do you believe it?" said John.
"Yes," said Ellen "I know it; but I think it is very disagreeable to think about it."
"It would be, Ellie," said he, bringing her again to his side "very disagreeable very miserable indeed, if we knew no more than that. But we know more read here."
Ellen took his little Bible and read at the open place.
" 'Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered, neither come into mind.' "
"Why won't they be remembered?" said Ellen "shall we forget all about them?"
"No, I do not think that is meant. The new heavens and the new earth will be so much more lovely and pleasant that we shall not want to think of these."
Ellen's eyes sought the window again.
"You are thinking that it is hardly possible?" said John with a smile.
"I suppose it is possible," said Ellen "but"
"But lovely as this world is, Ellie, man has filled it with sin, and sin has everywhere brought its punishment, and under the weight of both the earth groans. There will be no sin there; sorrow and sighing shall flee away; love to each other and love to their blessed King will fill all hearts, and his presence will be with them. Don't you see that, even if that world shall be in itself no better than this, it will yet be far, far more lovely than this can ever be, with the shadow of sin upon it?"
"Oh, yes!" said Ellen. "I know, whenever I feel wrong in any way, nothing seems pretty or pleasant to me, or not half so much."
"Very well," said John "I see you understand me. I like to think of that land, Ellen very much."
"Mr. John," said Ellen "don't you think people will know each other again?"
"Those that love each other here! I have no doubt of it."
Before either John or Ellen had broken the long musing fit that followed these words, they were joined by Alice. Her head was better; and taking her place in the window-seat, the talk began again, between the brother and sister now; Ellen too happy to sit with them and listen. They talked of that land again, of the happy company preparing for it; of their dead mother, but not much of her; of the glory of their King, and the joy of his service even here till thoughts grew too strong for words, and silence again stole upon the group. The short winter-day came to an end; the sunlight faded away into moonlight. No shadows lay now on the lawn; and from where she sat Ellen could see the great hemlock all silvered with the moonlight, which began to steal in at the window. It was very, very beautiful yet she could think now without sorrow that all this should come to an end; because of that new heaven and new earth wherein righteousness should dwell.
"We have eaten up all your grapes, Ellie," said Alice "or rather I have, for John didn't help me much. I think I never ate so sweet grapes in my life; John said the reason was because every one tasted of you."
"I am very glad," said Ellen, laughing.
"There is no evil without some good," Alice went on. "Except for my headache, John would not have held my head by the hour as he did; and you couldn't have given me the pleasure you did, Ellie. Oh, Jack! there has been many a day lately when I would gladly have had a headache for the power of laying my head on your shoulder!"
"And if Mamma had not gone away, I should never have known you," said Ellen. "I wish she never had gone, but I am very, very glad for this!"
She had kneeled upon the window-seat and clasped Alice round the neck, just as they were called to tea. The conversation had banished every disagreeable feeling from Ellen's mind. She met her companions in the drawing-room, almost forgetting that she had any cause of complaint against them. And this appeared when in the course of the evening it came in her way to perform some little office of politeness for Marianne. It was done with the gracefulness that could only come from a spirit entirely free from ungrateful feelings. The children felt it, and for the time were shamed into better behaviour. The evening passed pleasantly, and Ellen went to bed very happy.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Flowers and Thorns.
The next day it happened that the young people were amusing themselves with talking in a room where John Humphreys, walking up and down, was amusing himself with thinking. In the course of his walk, he began to find their amusement rather disturbing to his. The children were all grouped closely around Margaret Dunscombe, who was entertaining them with a long and very detailed account of a wedding and great party at Randolph, which she had had the happiness of attending. Eagerly fighting her battles over again, and pleased with the rapt attention of her hearers, the speaker forgot herself, and raised her voice much more than she meant to do. As every turn of his walk brought John near, there came to his ears sufficient bits and scraps of Margaret's story to give him a very fair sample of the whole; and he was sorry to see Ellen among the rest, and as the rest, hanging upon her lips and drinking in what seemed to him to be very poor nonsense. "Her gown was all blue satin, trimmed here and so you know, with the most exquisite lace, as deep as that and on the shoulders and here, you know, it was looped up with the most lovely bunches of" here John lost the sense. When he came near again, she had got upon a different topic " 'Miss Simmons,' says I, 'what did you do that for?' 'Why,' says she, 'how could I help it? I saw Mr. Payne coming, and I thought I'd get behind you, and so' " . The next time the speaker was saying with great animation, "And lo and behold, when I was in the midst of all my pleasure, up comes a little gentleman of about his dimensions ." He had not taken many turns, when he saw that Margaret's nonsense was branching out right and left into worse than nonsense.
"Ellen!" said he, suddenly "I want you in the library."
"My conscience!" said Margaret, as he left the room "King
John the second, and no less."
"Don't go on till I come back," said Ellen; "I won't be three minutes; just wait for me."
She found John seated at one of the tables in the library, sharpening a pencil.
"Ellen," said he, in his usual manner "I want you to do something for me."
She waited eagerly to hear what; but, instead of telling her, he took a piece of drawing-paper, and began to sketch something. Ellen stood by, wondering and impatient to the last degree; not caring, however, to show her impatience, though her very feet were twitching to run back to her companions.
"Ellen," said John, as he finished the old stump of a tree, with one branch left on it, and a little bit of ground at the bottom, "did you ever try your hand at drawing?"
"No," said Ellen.
"Then sit down here," said he, rising from his chair, "and let me see what you can make of that."
"But I don't know how," said Ellen.
"I will teach you. There is a piece of paper, and this pencil is sharp enough. Is that chair too low for you?"
He placed another, and with extreme unwillingness and some displeasure, Ellen sat down. It was on her tongue to ask if another time would not do, but somehow she could not get the words out. John showed her how to hold her pencil, how to place her paper, where to begin, and how to go on; and then went to the other end of the room, and took up his walk again. Ellen at first felt more inclined to drive her pencil through the paper than to make quiet marks upon it. However, necessity was upon her. She began her work; and once fairly begun, it grew delightfully interesting. Her vexation went off entirely; she forgot Margaret and her story; the wrinkles on the old trunk smoothed those on her brow; and those troublesome leaves at the branch end brushed away all thoughts of everything else. Her cheeks were burning with intense interest, when the library door burst open, and the whole troop of children rushed in; they wanted Ellen for a round game in which all their number were needed; she must come directly.
"I can't come just yet," said she; "I must finish this first."
"Afterwards will do just as well," said George; "come,
Ellen, do! you can finish it afterwards."
"No, I can't," said Ellen, "I can't leave it till it's done.
Why, I thought Mr. John was here! I didn't see him go out.
I'll come in a little while."
"Did he set you about that precious piece of business?" said
William.
"Yes."
"I declare," said Margaret, "he's fitter to be the Grand Turk than any one else I know of."
"I don't know who the Grand Turk is," said Ellen.
"I'll tell you," said William, putting his mouth close to her ear, and speaking in a disagreeable loud whisper, "it's the biggest gobbler in the yard."
"Ain't you ashamed, William!" cried little Ellen Chauncey.
"That's it exactly," said Margaret "always strutting about."
"He isn't a bit," said Ellen, very angry; "I've seen people a great deal more like gobblers than he is."
"Well," said William, reddening in his turn, "I had rather, at any rate, be a good turkey gobbler, than one of those outlandish birds that have an appetite for stones, and glass, and bits of morocco, and such things. Come, let us leave her to do the Grand Turk's bidding. Come, Ellen Chauncey, you mustn't stay to interrupt her we want you!"
They left her alone. Ellen had coloured, but William's words did not hit very sore; since John's talk with her about the matter referred to, she had thought of it humbly and wisely; it is only pride that makes such fault-finding very hard to bear. She was very sorry, however, that they had fallen out again, and that her own passion, as she feared, had been the cause. A few tears had to be wiped away before she could see exactly how the old tree stood, then, taking up her pencil, she soon forgot everything in her work. It was finished, and with head now on one side, now on the other, she was looking at her picture with very great satisfaction, when her eye caught the figure of John standing before her.
"Is it done?" said he.
"It is done," said Ellen, smiling, as she rose up to let him come. He sat down to look at it.
"It is very well, he said "better than I expected it is very well indeed. Is this your first trial, Ellen?"
"Yes the first."
"You found it pleasant work?"
"Oh, very, very pleasant. I like it dearly."
"Then I will teach you. This shows you have a taste for it, and that is precisely what I wanted to find out. I will give you an easier copy next time. I rather expected, when you sat down," said he, smiling a little, "that the old tree would grow a good deal more crooked under your hands than I meant it to be."
Ellen blushed exceedingly. "I do believe, Mr. John," she said, stammering, "that you know everything I am thinking about."
"I might do that, Ellen, without being as wise as an oracle. But I do not expect to make any very painful discoveries in that line."
Ellen thought, if he did not, it would not be her fault. She truly repented her momentary anger and hasty speech to William. Not that he did not deserve it, or that it was not true; but it was unwise, and had done mischief; and "it was not a bit like peace-making, nor meek at all," Ellen said to herself. She had been reading that morning the fifth chapter of Matthew, and it ran in her head, "Blessed are the meek" "Blessed are the peace-makers; for they shall be called the children of God." She strove to get back a pleasant feeling towards her young companions, and prayed that she might not be angry at anything they should say. She was tried again at tea- time.
Miss Sophia had quitted the table, bidding William hand the dough-nuts to those who could not reach them. Marianne took a great while to make her choice. Her brother grew impatient.
"Well, I hope you have suited yourself?" said he. "Come, Miss Montgomery, don't you be as long; my arm is tired. Shut your eyes, and then you'll be sure to get the biggest one in the basket."
"No, Ellen," said John, who none of the children thought was near "it would be ungenerous I wouldn't deprive Master William of his best arguments."
"What do you mean by my arguments?" said William, sharply.
"Generally, those which are the most difficult to take in," answered his tormentor with perfect gravity.
Ellen tried to keep from smiling, but could not; and others of the party did not try. William and his sister were enraged, the more because John had said nothing they could take hold of, or even repeat. Gilbert made common cause with them.
"I wish I was grown up for once," said William.
"Will you fight me, Sir?" asked Gilbert, who was a matter of three years older, and well-grown enough.
His question received no answer, and was repeated.
"No, Sir."
"Why not, Sir?"
"I am afraid you'd lay me up with a sprained ankle," said John, "and I should not get back to Doncaster as quickly as I must."
"It is very mean of him," said Gilbert, as John walked away
"I could whip him, I know."
"Who's that?" said Mr. Howard Marshman.
"John Humphreys."
"John Humphreys! You had better not meddle with him, my dear fellow. It would be no particular proof of wisdom."
"Why, he is no such great affair," said Gilbert, "he's tall enough, to be sure, but I don't believe he is heavier than I am."
"You don't know, in the first place, how to judge of the size of a perfectly well-made man; and, in the second place, I was not a match for him a year ago; so you may judge I do not know precisely," he went on to the lady he was walking with, "what it takes to rouse John Humphreys; but when he is roused, he seems to me to have strength enough for twice his bone and muscle. I have seen him do curious things once or twice!"
"That quiet Mr. Humphreys?"
"Humph!" said Mr. Howard "gunpowder is pretty quiet stuff, so long as it keeps cool."
The next day another matter happened to disturb Ellen.
Margaret had received an elegant pair of ear-rings as a
Christmas present, and was showing them for the admiration of
her young friends. Ellen's did not satisfy her.
"Ain't they splendid?" said she. "Tell the truth, now, Ellen Montgomery, wouldn't you give a great deal if somebody would send you such a pair?"
"They are very pretty," said Ellen, "but I don't think I care much for such things I would rather have the money."
"Oh, you avaricious! Mr. Marshman!" cried Margaret, as the old gentleman was just then passing through the room "here's Ellen Montgomery says she'd rather have money than anything else for her present."
He did not seem to hear her, and went out without making any reply.
"Oh, Margaret!" said Ellen, shocked and distressed "how could you! how could you! What will Mr. Marshman think?"
Margaret answered she didn't care what he thought. Ellen could only hope he had not heard.
But a day or two after, when neither Ellen nor her friends were present, Mr. Marshman asked who it was that had told him Ellen Montgomery would like money better than anything else for her New Year's present.
"It was I, Sir," said Margaret.
"It sounds very unlike her to say so," remarked Mrs. Chauncey.
"Did she say so?" inquired Mr. Marshman.
"I understood her so," said Margaret "I understood her to say she wouldn't care for anything else."
"I am disappointed in her," said the old gentleman; "I wouldn't have believed it."
"I do not believe it," said Mrs. Chauncey, quietly; "there has been some mistake."
It was hard for Ellen now to keep to what she thought right. Disagreeable feelings would rise when she remembered the impoliteness, the half-sneer, the whole taunt, and the real unkindness of several of the young party. She found herself ready to be irritated, inclined to dislike the sight of those, even wishing to visit some sort of punishment upon them. But Christian principle had taken strong hold in little Ellen's heart; she fought her evil tempers manfully. It was not an easy battle to gain. Ellen found that resentment and pride had roots deep enough to keep her pulling up the shoots for a good while. She used to get alone when she could, to read a verse, if no more, of her Bible, and pray; she could forgive William and Margaret more easily then. Solitude and darkness saw many a prayer and tear of hers that week. As she struggled thus to get rid of sin, and to be more like what would please God, she grew humble and happy. Never was such a struggle carried on by faith in Him, without success. And after a time, though a twinge of the old feeling might come, it was very slight; she would bid William and Margaret good morning, and join them in any enterprise of pleasure or business, with a brow as unclouded as the sun. They, however, were too conscious of having behaved unbecomingly towards their little stranger guest to be over fond of her company. For the most part, she and Ellen Chauncey were left to each other.
Meanwhile the famous needlebook was in a fair way to be finished. Great dismay had at first been excited in the breast of the intended giver, by the discovery that Gilbert had consulted what seemed to be a very extraordinary fancy, in making the rose a yellow one. Ellen did her best to comfort her. She asked Alice, and found there were such things as yellow roses, and they were very beautiful, too; and, besides, it would match so nicely the yellow butterfly on the other leaf.
"I had rather it wouldn't match!" said Ellen Chauncey; "and it don't match the rose-coloured silk, besides. Are the yellow roses sweet?"
"No," said Ellen; "but this couldn't have been a sweet rose at any rate, you know."
"Oh, but," said the other, bursting out into a fresh passion of inconsolable tears; "I wanted it should be the picture of a sweet rose! And I think he might have put a purple butterfly yellow butterflies are so common! I had a great deal rather have had a purple butterfly and a red rose!"
What cannot be cured, however, must be endured. The tears were dried, in course of time, and the needlebook, with its yellow pictures and pink edges, was very neatly finished. Ellen had been busy, too, on her own account. Alice had got a piece of fine linen for her from Miss Sophia; the collar for Mr. Van Brunt had been cut out, and Ellen with great pleasure had made it. The stitching, the strings, and the very buttonhole, after infinite pains, were all finished by Thursday night. She had also made a needlecase for Alice, not of so much pretension as the other one; this was green morocco, lined with crimson satin; no leaves, but ribbon stitched in to hold papers of needles, and a place for a bodkin. Ellen worked very hard at this; it was made with the extremest care, and made beautifully. Ellen Chauncey admired it very much, and anew lamented the uncouth variety of colours in her own. It was a grave question whether pink or yellow ribbon should be used for the latter; Ellen Montgomery recommended pink, she herself inclined to yellow, and, tired of doubting, at last resolved to split the difference, and put one string of each colour. Ellen thought that did not mend matters, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. Besides the needlecase for Alice, she had snatched the time, whenever she could get away from Ellen Chauncey, to work at something for her. She had begged Alice's advice and help; and between them, out of Ellen's scraps of morocco and silk, they had manufactured a little bag of all the colours of the rainbow, and very pretty and tasteful withal. Ellen thought it a chef-d'oeuvre, and was unbounded in her admiration. It lay folded up in white paper in a locked drawer, ready for New Year's day. In addition to all these pieces of business, John had begun to give her drawing lessons, according to his promise. These became Ellen's delight. She would willingly have spent much more time upon them than he would allow her. It was the most loved employment of the day. Her teacher's skill was not greater than the perfect gentleness and kindness with which he taught. Ellen thought of Mr. Howard's speech about gunpowder she could not understand it.